


Windless

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, F/M, Gen, Homeless Network, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:59:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt: Confused</strong><br/>His lover has skin like weak tea and eyes like strong coffee and she is not his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windless

**Author's Note:**

> This is what's going on between Bill Wiggins and Cassie Ragavendran in _Happiness Shared_ , but it can easily be read without reading the rest. (I hope.)
> 
> All alone in a corner of the night sky  
> Spiral bones of a supernova starlight  
> Fell in love with another burning bright  
> She dreamed of a way to ignite  
> "Cassiopeia"-Sara Bareilles

His lover has skin like weak tea and eyes like strong coffee and she is not his lover. Not really. Not that way.

It took over a year of him asking. And that isn’t true either. The Wig only asked once, and it was a fourteen months until she spun around to face him and- clear as day and out of the blue- said, “Yes, okay? Yes. Okay.”

“Um,” he said, stalling for time as he zipped along the rails in his mind and shifted from one foot to the other in the makeshift office of the homeless shelter, here where space was a commodity and every inch they kept back for records and supplies was a niggling guilt and _we could fit another bed if we_ -

They had met when Shezza got himself shot. After the daring escape from the hospital morphed into a chagrined slouch right back, he spotted her dropping off scarlet flowers and a box of dried and sugared cranberries. Staring at the geraniums, Sherlock’s parting shot had been to droopily grump that he’d seen enough red for a while, thanks. The young woman had cheerily jibed on her way past him and gone, “It’s to remind you that you’re a _bleeding_ moron!” and the drug-addled man had snorted.

The Wig- Wiggy- Bill Wiggins learned in bits and pieces that Cassie Ragavendran had a story not all that different from his own, once you strung it together: runaway, homeless, trying to fill in the cracks life had left like a shatter-pattern. The differences were significant. Cassie didn’t like drugs. They had been what drove her from her home instead of luring her away. She had set herself up in a little bedsit after staying on couches when she could find them, and in the shelter when she couldn’t. It was the sort of place where you wore shoes in the shower and slept with headphones in or you didn’t bathe and you didn’t rest. If you wanted to be the only thing eating your food, you couldn’t set your plate down. But she loved it and it was hers; she loved it _because_ it was hers.

She had carved herself a finger-hold and then a leg-up and climbed out.

He was never sure when his impression of her- and he was definitely impressed- had turned from outside to in. Either way, she had him beat. She told him he should come to the recovery meeting, then she told him he should talk, then she told him he should counsel. Cassie didn’t request, she didn’t have time to waste on his indecision. Neither did she demand or insist, she simply instructed. This normally would have rankled, would have rubbed him wrong and had him grabbing his jacket and promising it would never hang on _that_ hook again, but for her…

He wanted to make a good impression. He wanted her to be impressed with him, too.

In fact, he was not surprised when he first invited and she gave him a look and pinched her mouth closed, _as if_.

He was baffled stupid when she agreed. Except by then he wasn’t The Wig- not even Wiggy- anymore, so he had never actually asked her. A past-life version had, and she had saved up her answer until he deserved it.

They started small. She was firm and hesitant and she called him Wiggins and she called him on the weekends. They went to parties, they went to weddings. They held hands for months. She seemed nervous underneath and he thought he knew why. He bought her scones when he deduced which ones she liked best. Chocolate chips melted against her warm toffee fingers and against his lips when he leaned in. She froze and looked scared and sad and he asked and she told.

“It’s- look- I don’t... want that. Ever. Never have. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d last this long.” She rolled her eyes and he didn’t know if it was directed at him or back at herself. “But I liked you. And now- there’s _more_. But we can’t- I can’t.”

He had clarity now. He was more confused than ever.

His hand was still on her her shoulder, fingers warm between the back of her neck and the beam of spring sunshine. “‘More,’ though?” he asked drawing their foreheads together slowly. She had time to escape. There was nothing to run from. He held still, brow lightly pressed to hers, and, “‘More’ like this?” She slid her careful arms around him an inch at a time until their hearts were slotted together too.

She sobbed and he jumped back, but she followed him. She poured it out and he caught it up on the sleeves of his shirt: she hadn’t been held in years, for fear of leading on where she wouldn’t want to follow. “This isn’t going to be enough for you, either,” she mumbled into his chest.

“So long as it’s not too much for you, it’ll be all right.”

Some days, it almost wasn’t. Some days he would be frustrated and want more than his own relief. Some days he had to remind himself of her and the way she laughed at his bad jokes, the way her hair felt like living silk under his cheek while they watched _QI_ , the way she looked curled up on their bed. How she played with their rescue ferret, who’d had a rough life; and later, their rescue kid, who’d had a worse one. He’d remember that she hadn’t believed him for weeks and weeks, had waited for him to quit. She’d given him as much room with her heart as he’d given her with his body- “You decide how much you want, and I won’t ask for more.” He would keep meaning it. And he would take himself home, where he belonged. It wasn’t the hardest thing he’d given up. Nothing at all with Cassie was more than anything at all without her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I should explain that scarlet geraniums can mean either _comfort_ or _stupidity_ (both apt), and cranberries are a _cure for heartache_ (whether literal or figurative is up to the reader).
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed it!


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